


Defenseless

by bluegrassbaby



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Boys In Love, Caring John, First Kiss, M/M, Tired Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-12-07 13:34:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20976719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluegrassbaby/pseuds/bluegrassbaby
Summary: In post-case fatigue, Sherlock accidentally makes his feelings for John clear.I read some other (outstanding) works written in second person and I liked how it created a more personal, visceral feel to the story. So I gave it a shot!





	Defenseless

The taut wires of higher level cognition that have held you upright and propelled you forward for three days without sleep or sustenance have released. The constant whirring of your mind has come to a halt. It feels like you’ve been struck in the head with a sledgehammer. Or perhaps in the gut. For all you consider it to be transport, in these moments, in the post-case crash, you cannot separate your mind from your body. The fatigue pervades every fiber from cortex to calcaneus. You are usually home when this happens, very much prefer to be home in this state, falling into bed, but you and John were unusually far from home for this case. For that reason, you were particularly driven to persist, day and night, until the case was solved, knowing that John had to return to Rosie within four days, after which time Molly had to return to work. And you’re loathe to work a case without your muse. Your anchor. Your John. The train zips along, the car practically empty of other riders at this hour, speeding through the darkness, returning you both to London. There is a subtle rocking that makes it nearly impossible to remain awake, but you push back against the inexorable pull of slumber, knowing that when you sleep in this state, you sleep for days. John will struggle to wake you and get you moving when the train stops in three hours. 

He was shivering earlier, despite wearing his warmest wool jumper, so you slipped off your coat and laid it over him just as he was drifting. His face, fallen into tired parentheses framing his eyes, softened and he turned, smiling at you as he spread half of it over you as well, murmuring about not wanting you to get chilled. Those unbearably soft gazes, those gentle touches, fingers on mugs and hands on shoulders, disassemble you when you are in this state. You live for them, these moments. You collect them in the John Room of your mind palace, detailing every flicker of amusement and kindness in his eyes, every millimeter of warm skin contact, while simultaneously looking outwardly stoic and poised, mildly indifferent. But when you are in this rare and transient state, you are completely vulnerable and defenseless. The scaffolding of your walls that keep the world and all its cacophony at bay are crumbling. You have no resources left for pretense or facades, for suppressing your impulses. The warmth of his body beneath the coat saturates your own and you fight to keep your thoughts rational, within the realm of relevancy to your friendship. You return his smile with a look that is undoubtedly naked, but you are powerless to mask it. He looks slightly surprised and murmurs to ask if you’re ok. The unguarded smile in which you bathe him seems to be a suitable response because he settles into his seat looking content, a mere 6 inches from your right shoulder, and you feel his respirations slow into the rhythm of dreams. 

As you are consciously slowing your own pulse, his left hand drops in his slumber, between his thigh and yours. You catch your breath, your leg tingling at the point of contact, and oh, you’re so weak in this state and you relish every sensation. It takes every ounce of effort not to wake him with a moan as you catalog the pleasure of this moment. Before you are aware that it’s happening, your hand is against his. The backs of your fingers caress the soft skin between his knuckles, the sensation of slipping nude into warm water. You turn your hand and slide your fingertips over the hair on the back of his hand, now sliding your palm over his wrist. Your eyes have dropped shut to minimize other input, to experience only this as you work to keep your breathing in control. You should not be doing this, you know you should not be doing this, but the voice of reason in your head is so very tired. It is tired of being suppressed and your inhibitions are now lost. You could not find them if you tried. 

Your friendship has grown intimate and John is so gentle with you. There were times when he argued with every person who suggested you were more than friends, but now…now that John and Rosie lived at Baker St, now that you play lullabies on your violin and kneel beside the tub rubbing strawberry scented shampoo into baby-fine strawberry blonde hair twice a week when John works evening shifts….now he smiles when people see the three of you out together and lets them make their assumptions. You already loved him unconditionally and now you feel like a true family.

You normally process this in the back of your mind, a running stream of ‘don’t let him know how much don’t let him know how much don’t let him know’. All streaming has stopped and you are experiencing only this, now, while you are still caressing his hand gently. The moment stretches out luxuriously, begging to go on forever...until you register that the tension in his hand has changed. Your eyes fly open and panic alights in you when you find his wide open, surprised gaze on yours. You withdraw your hand with a graceless jerk and your mouth gapes open to explain, to sputter some words to make this make sense, to make it seem less like a violation while he slept. But your higher cortical function has abandoned you and you can’t force anything coherent from your lips. “I---it’s—I’m sorry—”

He sees you. He almost always does, but this time, in this state that you’re in, he really *sees* you. He sees everything that you’ve been hiding. His eyes widen and he whispers your name, nearly inaudibly but it sounds like supplication. It sounds reverent and relieved and his cerulean depths are sparkling as he says softly, 

“It’s fine. It’s all fine. God, it’s perfect.” He takes your hand in his and laces your fingers and you can’t remember when you stopped breathing, but you suddenly must draw a huge breath in to your lungs and realize that you’re trembling.

"OK?” He asks you gently, his face moving closer to yours in the quiet, dark, gently rocking train car as he leans forward, tips his head. You could no sooner pull away than you could cut out your own heart. You rush to complete the journey of your lips, unable to wait longer than the ten years you’ve been waiting and urgently press them to his, your left hand reaching up to thread through the silver-blonde strands at the nape of his neck. Your processor has frozen. You want to record everything to play and replay, but from the moment you touch, from moment you feel his breath puff against your upper lip, from the moment you feel his sigh as he leans into you further, ever-so-gently moving his lips, angling his head and touching the seam of your lips with the tip of his tongue as his right hand is splayed, framing your face, palm against jaw, his thumb caressing your cheek, you are unable to record--you just feel. And feel. And feel. You feel heat drop thickly from your lips to your core, you feel desperate and dizzy and wanting. You become aware that you may be hyperventilating as he untangles his fingers from yours to cup your jaw with both palms

“Hey, Sherlock, hey. Is this alright? Are you ok?” You close your eyes. Integration is offline, it’s impossible to process everything, anything but the feel of his hand against the rough, stubbly skin of your right cheek. You turn your face and kiss the smooth skin of his palm, gripping it tightly with your own hand and you focus on slowing your breathing, slow your breathing, slow your breathing.

“I just—” you start, still unable to articulate, your eyes pleading your case more eloquently than your tongue ever could.

“I know.” John finishes for you. He will always fill in your empty spaces. He closes his own eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath that concludes with a small hum and tilts your head, still trapped between his palms, and kisses your forehead, left cheek. “I know. Let’s talk about it at home, ok? Why don’t we get some sleep? You really need some.”

You nod, anxiety crawling into your chest, swallowing the lump that just lodged in your throat, worrying about the talking part. You and John are terrible at the talking part, you can’t see how talking is going to help--but then he angles his body, leans against the window, slips an arm around you beneath the coat and pulls you tightly against his chest. Your uncertainty leaves you in a long, tremulous exhale and you melt into him, your body melding against him, not knowing where you end and he begins. You count his heart beats against your right ear and you feel him press his lips against your scalp and as you finally surrender, you hear him whisper “sleep, love, I’ll be here.”


End file.
